


With the coming of Winter

by poppy (naomi3696)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, FIx It, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:58:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naomi3696/pseuds/poppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a gift for the Hobbit Winter Holiday Exchange on Tumblr!</p>
            </blockquote>





	With the coming of Winter

   It had been the barest of seconds, but they had both known it. As they had regarded each other the certainty had coloured their blood, seeped into their bones. Thorin had circled around the hobbit, his footsteps had echoed loudly in Bilbo’s ears joining in with the cacophony of his ricocheting heart. A heart fighting against the inevitable knowledge that those dark stormy eyes held within them a promise, a promise of unveiling, of unravelling the simplicity of his life. The dwarf spoke but the words came slowly to Bilbo as if travelling through water and he shook his head a little to clear his hearing, to rein back the frantic rhythm that his heart beat out against his ribs.

   The night wore on and the darkness settled closer in around the wizard and the group of dwarves who had so unexpectedly taken possession of Bilbo’s home. The words uttered around the table crashed and rolled over him. He had read about dragons, about distant kingdoms and adventures. But that is precisely what they had been, stories, a composition of words that had allowed Bilbo to enter a world more exciting, more alive than the one he resided in. He had been fine with stories and when the faint twinge of desire for adventure arose in him he had laughed quietly at himself and locked those yearnings away. He was after all a respectable hobbit.  
Yet here he was with a house full of dwarves, being handed a contract, invited to join the company of Thorin Oakenshield to act as a burglar, to help reclaim the long lost kingdom of Erebor. It had all been too much, the air had been too thick, had refused to enter his lungs and he had fainted.

   Later, once he had composed himself he’d listened to Gandalfs words. The wizard knew of his deep yearning for adventure, for more in life than was a hobbits due and had appealed to the wilder, Tookish side of Bilbo. But the fears that had crowded into Bilbo’s mind had been great and not easily dispelled with mere words.

“Can you promise I will come back?” Bilbo had asked, a futile question that his soul needed no answer to.

_“No and if you do you will not be the same.”_

   Those words had haunted his broken sleep that night, the song of the dwarves the lullaby that rocked him into an uneasy slumber. He’d awoken later in the depth of the darkness to hear the same tune carried by a solitary voice, a lonely haunted sound that pierced the marrow of his bones.

   And so the next morning when the dying embers still clung to the chilly morning air Bilbo stood in his empty kitchen, soft feet making no sound as he moved from one empty room to the next. Standing there he could still hear the echo of the dwarves chattering, could still feel the weight of those blue eyes on him, weighing his very soul. His home had never felt so empty, so trivial and the thought of settling down to breakfast, to another ordinary day gnawed viciously at his heart. The contract, his contract lay on a wooden side table and over it danced the early morning dust motes, twirling joyously in the sunlight. A knot as deep as the dwarven mines that Bilbo had only ever read about formed in his throat and a shaking started in his muscles, in his very bones.

   Short moments later he had tumbled through the tall grass, feet fast leaving behind the only life that he had ever known, the only place he had ever called home. He had not known it then, had not been capable of wording the secret that his soul had so greedily swallowed whole. His heart was leading him captive to the leader of this group of mismatched dwarves and he would follow wherever such a journey would take him.

   Their journey led them over hills, through forests deep and over mountains higher than Bilbo had ever imagined. The sun graced their quest at times but more often than not the rain poured over their weary bones and the wind howled with all the despair of a long lost child. Still they rode ever onward, their days eased by the easy jokes that flew between the dwarves and when night fell songs and stories were what kept Bilbo enthralled and sometimes even breathless with laughter. During those days Bilbo’s heart had grown fond of the dwarves, of their unique and often perplexing behaviour, their expressions of affection. They were a hardy race driven by a strong sense of morality, respect and tradition. They treasured any that they named as friends with a protectiveness that spoke of an underlying love as hardwearing as the stone that they chiselled their homes out of. But it was not only of dwarves and their ways that Bilbo came to know of on the journey. The official burglar of the company had also been thrown across the path of many vile and dangerous creatures. While it would have been no exaggeration to say that Bilbo had been terrified it would not have been the complete truth either. With the onslaught of danger there had awoken in Bilbo a courage and fearlessness that he had never realized he possessed before. With that realisation came another one, far more surprising.

   Thorin Oakenshield had been watching him, assessing him. Across a campfire one rainy night those heavy blue eyes steady in their unwavering gaze had met Bilbo’s in the darkness of the night and between their eyes had passed a heavy and dark knowledge. A knowledge that Thorin had struggled against, that he still struggled against, for it was no easy task to accept that the faith of a king depended so heavily on the action or inaction of a mere hobbit. But it was not the mere importance of the burglar to the outcome of their quest that drove Thorin to save the hobbits life time after time. Something else had taken a deep root within the chambers of the dwarfs heart, a feeling not dissimilar to the love that he had for his own people, for his friends. A love that Bilbo Baggins had returned with more courage and loyalty than Thorin could ever have expected.

   It had happened on the night that the wargs and their riders had finally cornered the dwarves. Thorin’s soul had grown dark, the flames had leapt with orange glee across his fading vision and he had vainly tried to reach for his sword, expecting death at the hands of Azog even as his soul howled against it. As his eyes closed he had seen a blur, a motion quicker than lighting darting out and blocking his view of the pale Orc. Hazel eyes had met his for the briefest of seconds, eyes so vulnerable yet full of courage and in that instant Thorin had known that Bilbo intended to fall before allowing anyone to get to him. It had filled him with shock, shock and anger but moreso with fear. The fear had not been for himself but for the hobbit and it was to these feelings that he awoke to later. His first thought had been for the burglar and he could do no more than draw Bilbo close, to feel whole skin and bone with his own two hands as they embraced. He owed his life to one Bilbo Baggins.

   It was not until they were alone a few nights later that Thorin sought Bilbo out, had vowed to return the bravery and selfless actions of the hobbit. His surprise had been great at the soft laughter that had left the hobbits lips and even greater when Bilbo, smiling had whispered back that there was no need to repay anything, that there existed no debt between them. It had been with a fluttering, perplexed heart that Thorin had sought sleep that night and in his heart awoke the slow but steady burning realisation that Bilbo Baggins was a far nobler, worthy and brave creature than perhaps even he himself.

   Thereafter his eyes were drawn to Bilbo more and more and as is often the case where the eyes look the body is drawn. Thorin Oakenshield with no small amount of trepidation had searched out the company of the hobbit, voice slightly gruff as he requested permission to take a seat beside Bilbo. If his company noticed they had said nothing beyond a few smiles and perhaps a few louder chuckles. Even Dwalin who perhaps might have made an ill-fitting joke remained silent, eyes focused on his hands as he sharpened his blades, a small smile playing about his lips.

   Soon it had become a ritual, Thorin seeking Bilbo out in the night, requesting his company with eyes steeled against a rejection that never came. It was in such fashion that the two would chat quietly around the campfire, surrounded by their friends who most often than not participated in far louder conversations. It was during these evenings that Bilbo had glimpsed the vulnerability that ate at Thorins heart; the ever present fear of being an unworthy king to his people and other fears left unspoken that haunted the heir of Durin with such tenacity. Bilbo had watched the campfire reflect in those dark blue eyes as he listened carefully to the tales that Thorin told of life in Erebor, of the peace and prosperity that had once blanketed the lives of everyone in the kingdom. As Bilbo listened his conviction had grown more and more, he and Thorin were more alike than he ever thought possible, for if the peace and safety of the Shire were ever threatened Bilbo knew with no amount of uncertainty that he would do everything to protect it and reclaim it from anyone wishing to destroy it.

   On nights when he couldn’t sleep Biblo would lie awake, eyes drawn to the shape of Thorin in the dark and he would wonder how different the Princes life might have been had not so much misfortune and heartache crossed his path, not that Thorin had ever spoken of his own loss and suffering. Thorin who freely spoke of Erebor before its fall so openly would not recount their lives afterwards and Bilbo did not push it, knowing that the memories were painful to the prince. So Bilbo had searched out members of the company that would speak of that time and heard such tales of hardship and loss that he could almost not bear to listen. Balin spoke of how the dwarves had lost many of their loved ones to madness, to men and other creatures that attacked them, exposed and vulnerable as they had been above ground for the first few months. He spoke of Thorin having suffered the loss of his entire family save but a few, the loss of the only way of life that he had ever known, the loss of his home. Dwalin albeit a little gruffly had recounted how Thorin had shouldered his responsibility, of the low paying demeaning work that he had sought out along with the others in the town of men, of how he had lowered himself by placing the needs of all other dwarves above his own, of the endless nights that they had spent together hunting in order to provide the more vulnerable among them with food and shelter in the first harsh cold winters spent above ground. A new life _had_ indeed been grafted for the surviving dwarves of Erebor in Ered Luin, a life of plenty, a life of security. But the journey had come at a great cost; at a price too great to bear and the lives of those lost was a weight that Thorin carried still. As Bilbo lay awake, eyes absently counting the stars overhead he could not help but feel a sense of sadness and wonder at the things that he had heard. It had renewed his determination to face Smaug if need be, to aid the dwarves in reclaiming their homeland.

   The days passed and as the company drew nearer to the Lonely Mountains the weather turned harsh. It had been an unusually cold and bitter night, the campfire had slowly dwindled down to weak flames that leapt erratically, barely keeping the darkness at bay. The company had slept close together, huddled in for both warmth and comfort.

   Bifur had awoken and after finding Thorin just outside the circle of light keeping watch he had urged the younger dwarf to take some rest. Thorin had obliged with a small smile of gratitude, patting the other dwarf affectionately across the back as he yielded his watch. His steps had been quiet as he had moved across the camp but had fallen still as he came across a small solitary form. It was the hobbit, curled hopelessly tight against the chilling cold that had him shivering, the small almost indiscernible chattering of his teeth snapping together mingled with the soft snores of the other sleeping dwarves. The burglar must have detangled himself from the limbs of the other dwarves, his actions must have led him to roll away from the group. Thorin had stood hovering above him, frowning against the blanket that he knew could provide little relief, quietly cursing the hobbits lack of good sense regarding his choice of clothing. Furs, leather and layers were best suited for the wilderness, not one fine cotton shirt, waistcoat and a light jacket. With a quiet sigh Thorin had slipped his fur coat off kneeling down to tuck it around the sleeping body, his touch light so as to not awaken Bilbo from his slumber. He had settled down a few steps away, eyelids fluttering shut only once the soft chattering of Bilbo’s teeth had stopped. Thorin had felt the cold more easily that night but he fell into an easier slumber knowing that the hobbit slept well.

   The following night had been harsher, slight flurries of snow drifting into the shallow cave that the dwarves had sought shelter in for the night. It had been Bilbo that had settled down beside Thorin, without requesting permission he had unrolled his bedroll right next to Thorin, close enough to touch. The others had watched with curious eyes, eyes that soon flew in every direction once Thorin swept his gaze warningly across the camp. The company had soon fallen into an established pattern, Fili and Kili piling their blankets together and converging underneath in defiance of the cold. Dwalin who kept first watch sat at the entrance of the cave, back turned to the rest of the company, eyes ever alert. Bomburs sitting close by the fire had been chewing on something, real or imaginary Bilbo had not know, for they had been short of food for a time. Gloin had sat speaking words of praise for his son Gimli, eyes glistening with happiness as he spoke of his family to anyone willing to listen. Bofur likewise chatted away animatedly and his audience listened to him with merry eyes as he recounted tales of old.

   Bilbo who had sat chuckling at the stories soon found himself succumbing to exhaustion. Eased by the warmth of the fire he lay down and after only a few seconds of shifting he had fallen asleep. It was not until much later, not until the fire had dwindled and the cold fortified itself in the cave that Bilbo awoke to the warmth of arms slipping under his blanket, twining around him and drawing him backwards to be enveloped by heat. Furs had enclosed him and his back had been pressed against a firm body. Bilbo’s breath had caught at the familiar roughness of the hands that held him still but his next breath had been ragged and deep, gulping down the smell of leather, of steal, skin, something like pine trees, smoke and deep mountain air. Even through all the layers separating them Bilbo could feel the glitch in Thorin’s steady heartbeat, could feel the uncertainty thrumming through the stiffness of the body that held itself rigid against his own. Struggling he had tugged an arm free from the embrace and had reached back to gently run his fingers through the strands of Thorin’s hair that lay within his reach.

“Thank you,” Bilbo had tried to twist around to face Thorin but the movement had not been allowed and so his whisper had been muffled into the furs that covered them both.

The heat of Thorin’s breath had been almost unbearable as his lips had grazed across the shell of Bilbo’s ear, his voice dark timbre as he spoke in an ancient tongue , words deep, rough but as beautiful as the crystal and gems that were nestled deep into stone. A soft smile had played across Bilbo’s mouth, he had no need to ask for the meaning of the words that Thorin spoke for he could guess their meaning. He had allowed his eyes to shut, comforted by the soft steady rhythmic rise and fall of Thorins chest against his back, ears prickling as an owl hooted somewhere in the wilderness surrounding them. The hobbit had fought against sleep, but the safety and warmth that he felt eased him into a deep dreamless rest. But Thorin had remained awake a little while longer, thoughts unable to draw away from the body sleeping within the ring of his arms. He wished to protect the hobbit, to keep the creature capable of such bravery and kindness safe, to shield him from the very violence of a world that he had unwittingly drawn him into through their meeting. Devotion, loyalty, love are perhaps the words that humans might have used to describe these feelings but Thorin knew them in words that he dared not utter aloud. This was an emotion of a different kind, an emotion that could only be voiced in Khuzdul, its intensity equalled only with his desire to claim back Erebor. Thorin knew that whatever admiration and respect he had viewed Bilbo with had grown to something far more, an emotion that he had tried to quell and yet craved with an intensity that made him fear his own heart.

   But the closer that they drew to the mountain the more he withdrew from the hobbit, from his own company and in solitude his desires grew darker and their roots became twisted. Balin and Dwalin had been the first to see it, the first to offer warning to Thorin of the disease that was starting to take root in his heart. Fili and Kili too in their own way had tried to speak to their uncle, their eyes filled with fear for the life of the only father that they had ever really known. As for the words of the wizard, they were as autumn leaves to the ears of Thorin Oakenshield and he did not pay heed to any that spoke with love and concern, hearing only the whispered yearning of his heart for gold, power and the quenching of his own selfish yearnings.

    It had been on a night not long after the dragon Smaug had been killed and the mountain reclaimed that Thorin had come across Bilbo alone in one of the deeper chambers of the mountain. The stench of dragon and desolation had been strong, the gold under Bilbo’s feet had been a cold moving ocean that had sent him skittering unsteadily with every step he took. Sleep had not come to the hobbit that night and so he had taken to walking aimlessly about in the hopes of silencing the thoughts that set his mind into a state of constant despair. Thorin Oakenshield had slept not one sound minute for weeks, his mind feverish, as wild as a wolf with no kill in the depths of winter. The dwarf had been prowling about his mountain each night, a solitary ghost, down spiralling stairs, from chamber to chamber in the eternal exhausted quest of the tormented. He desired the Arkenstone and had searched for it with the same intensity, the same single mindedness that had driven a creature out from the depths of Goblin town after the object of his own precious desire.

Standing in the gloomy shroud of darkness the King under the Mountain had watched the hobbit in silence.

“Burglar,” Thorin’s voice had been raspy, deep and as unfeeling as the stone that surrounded them.

Bilbo had startled at the sound, almost losing his footing atop the ever shifting ocean of gold that he had been threading. His own voice had been small, unsure and tinged with the slightest hint of panic as he swivelled around to meet a pair of glittering eyes glinting brightly across the cavern. Thorin emerged from the darkness a heartbeat later, azure eyes feverish, white teeth bared in something like a smile but to Bilbo it seemed to be a grimace, pained and forced into something that could never compare to the slow and languid stretch of Thorin’s lips whenever he had smiled before. The dwarf had moved forward with intent and speed, unbothered by the shimmering, shifting floor that had caused Bilbo to stumble many times. There was a pale gaunt shadow that clung to Thorin’s skin, the dark river of his hair had become unravelled from the silver clasps and had come loosened from the neat braids that Bilbo had often watched Thorin re-braid during their journey. Bilbo’s observations had ended as Thorin came to a halt before the hobbit, stepping close enough that Bilbo could feel damp breath ghost over his face.

“And what is it that sends our burglar wandering about so deep in my mountain?” the old Thorin might have chided in jest but the look that crossed his face now was a sneer and the eyes that bore into Bilbo were looking too intently, too feverishly.

Bilbo could only shake his head, one finger raised in objection ready to explain that he had not been occupied in anything sly or suspicious but he wasn’t given a chance to speak.

“Such a small creature, “ Thorin’s voice had been smooth, a whisper as he reached forward, fingers brushing the nape of Bilbo’s collarbone, “so delicate,” his hands had moved up to circle Bilbo’s neck, fingers tightening slowly until he could feel the pulse that skittered nervously under thin skin. “It might prove dangerous for one as small as you to wander about alone so deep in the mountain. Anyone, anything could have found you alone.”

Bilbo swallowed nervously and watched as Thorin’s lips curled in satisfaction, the prince’s fingers were a firm pressure about his neck but not yet tight enough to cause the hobbit any difficulty in breathing. Bilbo tilted his head upwards and absently noted the gold flecks that swam in the dark blue eyes that fused with his. The scent of blood, steal and leather was strong but the smell of gold, of metal was heady and overpowering, almost pungent.

Thorin’s furs tickled his face and he was reminded of the nights when those same furs had been wrapped around him, those same rough hands that were now gripping his throat had often rubbed warmth and comfort into Bilbo’s tired arms and it had been the reassuring press of those fingers around his stomach that had eased Bilbo into sleep on many a night. But the dwarf that stood before him now was not the Thorin Oakenshield that Bilbo had come to know but a dwarf with a diseased mind and an exhausted overburdened body, a soul riddled with gold sickness. He had never feared Thorin before but it was fear that spiked his blood now, a fear that he had no intention of revealing.

“Small I might indeed be but not weak and certainly not defenceless, a fact that I hope I have demonstrated in the nights and weeks that we have travelled together. But indeed it is fortunate that you came across me for who knows what other creature could have been lurking in wait for me.” Bilbo spoke all these words, eyes resolutely, unwaveringly fixed on the shimmering blue gaze that pinned him to place as effectively as the hands that were wrapped around his neck “And now perhaps I might request that you allow me to return to my bed for all this walking has made me weary.”

A second of silence passed, firm hazel eyes narrowed slightly as Thorin raised an eyebrow ,his lips drawing back again into a smile that barred his white teeth to Bilbo. But still the hands were not drawn away and so Bilbo did the only thing that came to mind. Squaring his shoulders he took a step forward hoping that it would force Thorin to take a step of his own backwards and dislodge his hands but Thorin did not move and Bilbo met with a hard chest, his legs bumping against Thorin’s.

“I wish to sleep. Does the king object?” the words came out with far more spirit and sarcasm than Bilbo had intended to voice and he was forced to bite his tongue to keep it silent.

Hollow laughter flowed from Thorin’s lips as he bent his head lower, one hand moving to Bilbo’s chin, tilting the hobbits head, forcing their eyes to meet again. Long dark strands cascaded around Bilbo’s face as Thorin bowed his head further still until they were breathing in each other’s discarded air. Bilbo who could no longer quell the shaking that spread through his bones tried to pull away but the fingers around his neck drew him roughly back. He bit his lips against the half whimper that spilled from his throat and with a shuddering breath reached up to grasp Thorin’s forearms.

“The king does not object,” Thorin growled, his damp breath washing over flushed skin. “ _ **I**_ do not object,” he whispered, dry lips and sharp teeth scrapping over the sensitive shell of Bilbo’s ear.

The blood raged through Bilbo, beating out a frenzied rhythm against his eardrum. He could feel Thorins lips moving wordlessly against his ear, teeth a cold pressure against his earlobe. Fear sent an icy stake through his spine but there was also desire and it made his skin flush, his heart tremble.

But then it was all over, the air around Bilbo bristled as Thorin withdrew and moved past him, the rushing of gold underfoot the only sound that hinted at the path that the dwarf wove across the chamber as he left. Bilbo stood frozen until Thorins footsteps died but then unable to stop, his hands flew to his lips to catch the soundless panic that tore from his throat in faster and faster gusts of air. His knees shook as he stumbled from the dark chamber, cursing the gold that twinkled and winked at him with each step that he took.

That night as he lay in the dark, surrounded by the sleeping bodies of his friends he fell into an uneasy feverish sleep. There would be no warm arms twining about Bilbo, no rough fingers trailing a caress into the cotton of his shirt and no hushed chuckle to elicit by twining restless fingers through long raven hair. No, for Thorin still stalked and hunted, dark eyes and heart set aflame by the desire to obtain the very same object that lay tucked safely under Bilbo’s uneasy head.

   The events that had followed were a blur to Bilbo. Fearing for the lives of his friends, for the life of Thorin he had voluntarily handed the Arkenstone over. He had known that Thorin would view it as a betrayal but had hoped beyond all hope that the dwarf would see sense in his actions and would forgive him. But that had not been the case and he had been cast out, banished from the company of those that he had grown to cherish more than any others. It had been a heavy price to pay but Bilbo had felt that there had been no other choice. War had been looming and he had hoped to spare the lives of many even at the cost of losing whatever esteem and shattered fragment of love Thorin had still felt towards him.

   But once the wave formed it could not be stopped so easily and so the Battle of Five Armies as it came to be called later came crashing against the very doorstep of Erebor. A ravenous wave it had been, painting the sky red, watering the soil with the blood of those slain on the battlefield. Souls were reaped by the thousand; the air had reeked of death, anguish and unspeakable terror. Bilbo under the cloak of his ring had remained behind even after his banishment, unable to tear himself away from his friends, hoping that he might still be able to aid them even if it was too late to protect them from war. Faced with the violence and heartlessness of war he had wanted nothing more than to run, to close his eyes against the atrocities that he witnessed and had wished for Bag End and the Shire, wished that he had never set foot outside of his comfortable hobbit hole. But then he had caught sight of Thorin, of Fili and Kili fighting not far from his side. Bilbo had seen with bated breath how outnumbered they were, caught sight of the spear that hummed by Thorin’s neck, saw it melt between the dwarfs chest and shoulder.

   Kili had been the first to see his uncle stagger, face contorted in anguish he’d tried to fight his way closer to Thorin but emotion is a weak ally in battle and it led him into a snare. Fili, drenched in blood had seen Thorin wounded, had yelled, pleaded for Kili to stop, to allow him to cover his back before acting on impulse but his screams had been swallowed by the cacophony of bodies cutting each other down. Even if his words had reached Kili they would have fallen on deaf ears, the adrenalin coursing through the brunets body had made him incapable of hearing anything other than the raging of his own blood. But the bodies of their enemies had swarmed in around the remaining three heirs of Durin blocking Bilbo’s sight. Not knowing what else to do the hobbit had struggled forwards, deeper into the vicious arteries of the battle. Unshed angry tears had stung his eyes as he slipped around bodies but then everything had grown dark and Bilbo Baggins could remember no more of the battle.

   Later he had cried with joy at finding the company of Thorin Oakenshield alive and well. The heirs of Durin had all suffered horrific injuries but the healers were hopeful. Their injuries had been so vicious, their bodies so torn, wounds gaping under the thin magical bandages that the elves had wrapped around their unconscious bodies. Bilbo had sat in the tent that Fili and Kili had shared, fingers caressing the heated feverish forehead of the two brothers. They had been kind, playful and carefree and as Bilbo watched over them he hoped that they would remain unchanged, one never far from the other and as carefree as they had always been.

   Thorin had been harder to look upon, the strain that the gold sickness had played on him had been clear in the white almost translucent skin of his gaunt face. Almost no inch of his body had been free of wounds and the white bandages wrapped about his limbs had become soaked with blood far too fast. He had courted deaths door for many nights and Bilbo had remained close by, sitting by the bed as often as he was allowed. During those nights he recounted old tales, riddles and even hummed a song or two of his own composition. In the low candlelight Bilbo had traced the unkempt strands of Thorin’s long hair, fingers a light caress over Thorin’s scalp.

  It had been during one of those nights that Thorin’s hand had first twitched, weakly reaching up to grasp Bilbo’s wrist from where his fingers were nestled deep in raven dark hair. His name had fallen from Thorin’s lips once, twice until it had become a silent chant. He had been conscious only for a few minutes but his eyes and voice had sought confirmation of Bilbo’s wellbeing. Bilbo’s grip turning almost painfully tight had begged for Thorin to stay awake for a second longer, to just speak one more word. For the hobbits heart had been fearful for the king, spiked with the silent terror that Thorin would pass from this world to the next. The thought had been an icy needle down Bilbo’s spine, immobilising and draining the last of the courage and strength that he had struggled to hold onto. Rough fingers had crawled from their place around Bilbo’s wrist upwards entwining with the shorter slimmer fingers of the hobbit and although the hold was weak there was warmth in the azure blue eyes as they struggled to focus in on Bilbo’s face. But it had been the weak trembling slide of Thorin’s lips as he smiled a bittersweet smile that Bilbo could no longer bear. With a choked gasp he had moved to embrace Thorin, muffling his tears into the crook of the king’s shoulder. Thorin’s words had been faint gusts of warm air whispered into Bilbo’s curls, apologies, reassurances, pleas, nonsensical words of comfort. The two had remained in that embrace for long minutes, Bilbo leaning awkwardly over Thorin, attempting to hold his weight above the dwarf through the elbow pressed into the bed even as the arms around him weakly urged him forward.

   Later that night Bilbo sat alone rolling a spoon around the still full bowl of stew that he had been given, his thoughts heavily occupied with what had occurred earlier. Thorin had fallen back into a dark uneasy sleep and Bilbo had pulled back, resuming his position in the chair that he had drawn close. He had maintained his vigil, mind vacant and yet feverishly alive up until the healers had come to change the bandages. It had been with kindly words that they had bid Bilbo to take rest and with eyes burning he had gazed at Thorin for long minutes before turning and fleeing from the tent. Perhaps his heart had known it then but Bilbo had not understood the inclination of his own broken soul yet and had not realized that it would be the last time that he would look upon Thorin. Because in the murky depths of that night he had risen, gathering the few things that he could consider his own and had tried to slip out quietly and alone unable to bear the thought of saying goodbye. For while he had been brave, courageous in the face of all that he had experienced, his heart had carried a burden for far too long, a burden far heavier than most others would have been able to bear. It had been enough, far too much and he could carry it no longer. His soul craved the familiarity of home and his mind begged for peace even as his heart bowed heavier under the knowledge of his actions.

   However his attempt to leave unnoticed failed, he had been found out and with fervent pleas each and every member of the company had begged for him to remain and if he could not bear the thought of living in Erebor to perhaps remain just a little longer, a month, a few weeks, a handful of days, just a few more hours. Only after a firm word or two did the dwarves realize the seriousness of Bilbo’s decision and then with tears on both sides they had embraced urging Bilbo to return, to visit, for it should be impossible to become estranged after such a journey spent in each other’s company. Only after full heartfelt farewells, well-wishing and a sturdy pony and supplies was he allowed to leave. It had been not very long at all after Bilbo having left, that Gandalf came riding up beside him, eyes heavy with a certain sadness that Bilbo had not seen before.

   And so it had been with Gandalf for company that Bilbo had made the journey back to the Shire. A long, painful journey it had been for with every step that he had retraced he could not help but recall the memories of the stubborn but warm-hearted dwarves in whose company he had first caught sight of the mountains, forests and valleys that he now passed over. The nights spent around the campfire seemed lonely now without Bofur’s loud voice ringing out in song, Dwalin’s grumblings or indeed Ori’s tentative questions. Lying in the dark with the luminous stars overhead Bilbo had wondered how the King of Erebor faired, if his wounds had healed, if upon awakening fully he had understood the reasons for Bilbo’s having to leave and if perhaps in his heart he had parted with Bilbo as with a friend. More often than not he wondered if he would ever see any of the dwarves again, the ones well enough to have been able to wave him off had promised that they would visit and with mournful eyes had bid Bilbo to return to Erebor soon for they were loath to lose such a friend.

   It had taken Bilbo weeks, months to set everything in order in Bag End but slowly things had started to take on a routine and this certain type of normality had eased the sharper edges of Bilbo’s pain. The sunshine no longer seemed so unnecessarily bright and there was joy to be had from the sweet scent that the coming of spring heralded in through the open windows of Bag End. Slowly Bilbo replenished his larder and pushed the thoughts of those that had emptied it so quickly far to the back of his mind. Nights as most of his days, he spent alone, eating in solitary silence as the fire cracked quietly in the hearth. It was in such a fashion that time passed and soon summer fell, replaced by the same autumn that winters icy fingers uprooted.

   The first hints of frost crept around the trees making the grass crunch underfoot. It was dusk and Bilbo sat puffing quietly on his pipe, eye crinkling slightly as he thought about the events of the last few days. Gandalf had turned up out of the blue, not that that in itself was unusual for Gandalf who often visited and never without as much as a letter to warn Bilbo of his impending arrival. Not that Bilbo minded but he would have appreciated a little notice so as to prepare tea and something special for breakfast, elevenses, lunch, dinner and supper. Gandalf had been his normal jovial self, eyes twinkling with mirth as he sat eating hunched over Bilbo’s dining table. They had eaten dinner together every night during his visit and after as was their habit they sat under the stars smoking their pipes, speaking or silent it did not matter much either to Bilbo or to Gandalf. No the visit had been pretty normal, that’s not what bothered Bilbo. Instead it had been the few glances of worry that he had caught Gandalf directing his way that had Bilbo concerned. That and the tentative way that Gandalf mentioned Erebor and how he absently noted the distance their dwarven traders were venturing to these days, almost to the borders of the shire he had muttered between blowing out smoke rings. The words in themselves had been unusual, for they did not often speak of dwarves, never of Erebor. Slightly alarmed Bilbo had turned to Gandalf swiftly enough to catch the eyes of the wizard resting heavily on him, watching for his reaction. Bilbo had all but choked on his smoke and mumbled something or other about the benefits of trading. Gandalf had just smiled, his eyes light and good humoured again as he patted a choking Bilbo on the back.

   But now Gandalf has taken his leave, bidding Bilbo farewell for another unspecified time period. It is getting chilly outside and no amount of pondering or torment will help in unravelling Gandalf’s mysterious behaviour and so with stronger resolve to spend the remainder of the evening enjoyably Bilbo rises from his bench and with slightly heavy steps moves inside Bag End, shutting his newly painted door firmly shut.

   The fire is soon crackling and a thick hearty stew is bubbling away on the stove. Bilbo eats alone, relishing the taste of the smoked cured bacon that he bought at the market that morning. He had expected Gandalf to join him for dinner and so he had made enough to satiate the appetite of both a wizard and a healthy hobbit.

   He will be having stew for a few days, not that he minds, for it is a delicious. After eating he sets about washing up and only once everything is returned to its correct place does Bilbo settle down in-front of the fire with a book and a sweet glass of red wine. The favourite wine of a dwarf called Dori, a dwarf that had once helped himself to more than a few of Bilbo’s bottles of reserve wine, the same dwarf that had though Bilbo of the many customs of dwarves. The thought is an upsetting one and so Bilbo plunges back into the book that rests heavily across his lap. The windowpanes rattle with a howling wind and soon the pitter-patter of raindrops hum through the corridors. Bilbo absently tightens his bathrobe, eyebrows furrowing as he struggles to concentrate. The air is heavy with the scent of candle wax, wine and burning firewood. A log crackles and pops, small embers shoot out of the fireplace and Bilbo is drawn away from the book, eyes mesmerized by the flames as they lick and jump about. Time slips by and the book lying in Bilbo’s lap is forgotten, instead he sips at his wine and stares into the fire, eyebrows furrowed in vacant concentration. The winds grow and hand in hand it twirls about Bag End violently, a rough dance that sets the windowpanes shaking in irritation. But it is not this that makes Bilbo start; there is another sound, something far louder, more insistent.

There is knocking. Someone is knocking.

There is someone knocking at the door of Bag End. Bilbo sits with these thoughts ricocheting through the chambers of his mind. But it is a late night, dark wet and violent, not a night for visiting. And so it must be his imagination, another cruel trick that he has had to live with. It’s been just over a year now since he’s returned from the Lonely Mountains, a year of frequent phantom knocks that each time revealed nobody on the other side.

Bilbo does rise now, languidly stretches, drops the book to the side table and leaves the fire, soft feet padding silently as he enters the dark corridor. A sleepy yawn is torn from his mouth as he grasps the handle of his bedroom door. But there it is again. It is louder now, a rough insistent sound, almost impatient as it echoes down the hall, one, two times. Bilbo stops and swallows down the anxiety that is clawing its way up his throat. Irritation awakens swiftly in its place, he swivels around, marches to the front door and after checking that his robe is indeed firmly in place grasps the doorknob and swings the door open.

His mouth is open so as to speak, one finger raised in indignation, ready to object at whoever has had the indecency to come knocking at so late an hour. An hour that every well behaved hobbit knows is an unacceptable time to go about visiting people.

 Except it is not a hobbit who stands before him and any words that Bilbo intends to speak are replaced by a soft _oh_ sound that unwittingly escapes from his mouth.

The wind pushes in around the hooded figure, picks up the tails of Bilbo’s robe, his sleeves and shakes them lightly as if to remind him of his manners. There is the sound of the angry patter of heavy raindrops as they fall and roll hard and fast off a leather hood, the wind too whistles and snarls, whipping about the falling rain violently.

Not one word is spoken. Wide hazel eyes stare out as if unseeing and Bilbo blinks, once and then again and then he lifts one shaky hand and rubs at his forehead, at his eyes. Because standing before him is Thorin Oakenshield , king of Erebor and Bilbo feels himself stumbling backwards, one hand still raised in frozen irritation.

There is uncertainty, fear and hope in the burning blue eyes that meet Bilbo’s but there is another emotion in their depths and it sets fire to Bilbo’s skin. It is a fiercer, stronger heat than the fires stoked by the dwarven smiths deep in Erebor. It eats through Bilbo’s bones, consumes him whole.

Bilbo coughs, he laughs, his hand shots up to cover his mouth in disbelief but the laughter changes and then there is a sound low and broken and it spills from between his fingers. He reaches out and open palmed presses his hand against the material of Thorin’s chest. The leather is cold and raindrops roll over Bilbo’s fingers as they curl over the material. His nails are digging into the leather and suddenly he isn’t sure if he wants to draw Thorin closer or to push him away. He looks back up at Thorin to find that his eyes are watching his hand where it rests against the dwarf’s chest.

“Bilbo..,” Thorin starts, voice as low, as dark and heavy as midnight and exactly how Bilbo remembers but he cannot allow Thorin to continue and so he coughs and speaks the first words that come to mind.

“Terrible weather we’re having,” it comes out in a voice far higher than normal and the words are meaningless but to Bilbo they are suddenly very important. Those blue eyes are on him again and so he continues to mutter “yes well it’s all very well for those of us that don’t need to be out in the morning trudging through the thick mud and then dragging it back into the house and I needn’t tell you how hard it is to get mud out of a carpet...” but then a larger hand rests atop his and the fingers that press his gently are cold and a little wet but the firm touch stops his ramblings.

“May I come in?” the words are softly spoken. It is a question but it also holds an apology and as Bilbo’s faltering eyes look to Thorin he realizes that there is also understanding there. It quickens his heart and gives him courage.

Bilbo coughs, clears his throat. Drawing his hand back he checks the fastenings of his robe before taking a step back and bowing ever so slightly.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”

Thorin only smiles and follows Bilbo inside, leaving the rain to accompany the wind as it twirls and hastens on its dance around Bag End.


End file.
